The Best Days of Your Life
by Space-facade
Summary: AU. In which Stephen Hart and Captain Ryan have met before and there is confusion, teasing and a British high school. Now a sixteen-part series. Stephen/Ryan, 'ware slash. Reviews are food for my muse and very loved.
1. The Benefits of Higher Education

**I suppose I have to say it. School!AU. I have no idea where the inspiration for this came from. But hey, I hope you like. **

Chapter 1

It was a warm day in early September. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, and the sun was shining down; hot rays scorching the soil. There was but a whisper of wind, and it was the sort of day when all one really wanted to do was lie about on a beach, or laze around in the park, eating ice cream and occasionally making lewd comments about girls in short skirts.

Unfortunately for Thomas Ryan, known universally by just his surname, none of the aforementioned activities were possible. Because it was the beginning of September, and instead of being out in a pair of shorts soaking up the last drops of the summer weather, he was crammed into grey trousers, grey blazer, shirt and worst of all, the torture device known as the tie, and was stuck inside a stuffy, windowless hall / oven, being slowly roasted alive - along with a hundred and fifty or so others - by the last rays of said coveted summer sun. If that wasn't child cruelty, he didn't know what was.

Looking up at the stage, Ryan ran a hand through his short blond hair, before belatedly remembering this was sixth form and he was supposed to be keeping his hair tidy. He tried to re-straighten it inconspicuously, attempting not to look like a preening girl. Clearly he had failed in that department, because the next second, his best mate, Tom, located in the seat to his right, grinned at him, before reaching over and roughly destroying whatever façade of tidiness Ryan had managed to restore.

If the air had still tasted of summer and freedom, Tom would have been tackled and had his face ground into the floor in a matter of seconds, but as it was, the scent of rules, school books and detentions necessitated the use of a mere glare in retaliation.

Wincing, Ryan stretched out his legs, trying to find the necessary space under the seat in front to accommodate his five foot seven frame. He wasn't particularly tall for his age, but whoever set out the room for assemblies seemed to labour under the impression that all of the students took growth suppressants and remained forever at the height they had been in Year Seven. As it were, throughout the hall mutterings of discomfort echoed and from time to time there could be heard the sharp crack of a joint as someone attempted to stretch.

It was half past eight on the first morning of Sixth Form, and the new Year Twelve had been crammed into the assembly hall to await a greeting from the headmistress. There was a general air of sullenness and rebellion, and the atmosphere in the too-small hall suggested about 97% of its occupants would far rather be elsewhere.

Ryan would have like to pretend that he was in the 3% that could actually claim to enjoy school life but that would make him both a liar and a hypocrite. School had never agreed with him. He disliked taking orders, and following rules, he disliked 90% of the subjects he was forced to take, for the most part he disliked his peers, and he **loathed **the uniforms.

Throughout the six week summer, the most formal Ryan had got had been the jeans and white shirt he'd been forced into for his sister's wedding. The rest of the time had been spent in ripped, faded Levi's, shorts or swim trunks. The upshot of this was that, now, the grey trousers itched, the grey blazer was heavy and far too hot, the white shirt was too small and cut into his skin (a result of his summer growth spurt and refusal to shop for new uniform) and Ryan had suspicions his tie was possessed by an evil spirit and was trying to strangle him.

All-in-all, he was not best pleased to be back at school. Although there was some hope, as far as he was concerned, that perhaps Sixth Form would be more enjoyable than anything so far. He would, for one thing, only be doing subjects of his choice and you were supposedly given a lot more independence. He was also very much hoping his timetable would give him a means of avoiding those he didn't get on with, and the frequent fights that came hand in hand with them.

Two minutes later, the sharp clack-clack of heels echoed, and the headmistress of Oakborne Grammar School, Mrs Queller, took to the stage. She was a dumpy woman in her early forties, and Ryan could, if he squinted, imagine her perhaps having been attractive once upon a time. Now however, she was overweight, pasty-skinned, and had drastically black and obviously dyed hair scraped back into a dry, forehead-stretching ponytail. She was very possibly the least charismatic person Ryan had ever known.

'Good mornnnninnngggggggggg, Year Twelllvveeeeeee.'

Mrs Queller's voice was monotonous in a sing-song sort of way, and Ryan got the distinct impression that she too, would far rather be anywhere but in the stuffy school hall.

'Good mornningggggg, Mrs Quellllerrrrrrrr.'

Ryan's peers sing-songed a response, sounding equally as bored. Ryan couldn't quite bring himself to bother to open his mouth, and a glance sideways at Tom showed that his best mate hadn't either.

Thomas Andrew Richard Anthony Jackson had been Ryan's best friend since they were seven years old. Their mothers had met at a post office, and formed an instant bond over the shop's failure to stock the right kind of canned tomatoes. The next day, Ryan had been dragged to tea at the Jackson's house; his mother labouring under the usual misconception that because she liked Mrs Jackson, Ryan would automatically like Tom.

Even at the tender age of seven, Ryan had been more than aware that life did not work like this, and clearly Tom had felt the same, as when they had been deposited face to face in the garden, and told to 'have fun now' they had spent a good ten minutes sitting and glowering at each other.

The angry glare on Tom's face had, not that Ryan had ever admitted it, unsettled him a little, and in order to show his complete disregard for Tom's mere presence he had climbed to his feet and strolled off up the garden to look at a rabbit hutch. He had been on the verge of opening the cage, when he'd heard a voice behind him saying,

'You can't touch her. She's mine.'

Ryan had turned with an indignant sneer, and uttered the devastatingly witty reply of,

'Who's going to stop me?'

And that had been when Tom had launched himself at Ryan, and ploughed into him with all the subtlety of a tank. Ryan had gone crashing to the grass, all the air expelled from his lungs in a whoosh, but there must be some truth in the rumour that little boys are made of rubber, because in a matter of seconds, he was shoving, thumping, biting and generally giving as good as he got.

And when Ryan's mother had come rushing out about a minute later, clearly alarmed by the war cries echoing from the garden, she had been horrified to find her well-mannered little boy, a **guest **at somebody's house, laying into her new friend's son.

Ryan and Tom had been dragged off each other, and an explanation had been demanded, both parents irate. And that had been the moment that a bond had formed between them. Because in the face of hostile parents, they turned from enemies to allies, and instantly began constructing a story of red Indians and make-believe games.

This story had placated their mothers and the furious ear bashing had been reduced to a gentle scolding and admonishment.

When the mothers returned inside, there had been a moment of unease, as both of them tried to gauge whether or not they were now back to deadly enemies, before Tom had thumped him on the back and said,

'I'm Tom.'

Ryan had thumped him back, in a friendly sort of way, and replied,

'Yes, I know. I'm Tom as well.'

Tom had regarded him, and then said,

'If we're going to be friends, then we can't have the same name.'

'Why?'

'Because it's weird.'

'Why?'

'Because it is.'

'Why?'

Tom had glared at him furiously at this point before realising Ryan was snickering. Ryan, who wasn't particularly bothered about them having the same name, nevertheless applied his seven-year-old brain to the problem, in an attempt to find a solution.

'What's your full name?'

Tom had gone furiously red, and muttered something.

'What? I can't hear you.'

'I **said** my name's Thomas Andrew Richard Anthony Jackson.'

Ryan had raised his eyebrows.

'Holy shit.'

Tom had looked impressed by this gratuitous swearing.

'Why?'

Ryan shrugged.

'I was thinking maybe we could call you by one of your other names.'

Tom had shaken his head, looking determined.

'No, I have more names, which means my name is better than yours, which means I get first dibs on the name, which means **I **get to be called Tom.'

Ryan had wrinkled his forehead, trying to follow the logic of this.

'But you don't even know my full name.'

Tom had shrugged.

'No-one ever has a full name longer than mine.'

Ryan glared at him.

'You should at least ask before making that assumption.'

'Well, what **is **your full name?'

Ryan glared some more.

'Thomas Ryan.'

'Well there you go.'

There was a mutinous silence for a moment, the peace pact still rather delicate, before Ryan had shrugged and said,

'Well I suppose you'd better call me Ryan then.'

Tom had grinned, and appeared satisfied with this solution.

'Great. So, want to meet my rabbit, Ryan?'

The name had stuck ever since.

Ten years later, Tom was still the best friend Ryan had ever had. They had grown up together, fighting, chatting, laughing, prank-pulling, and sometimes sitting in silence simply because they **could**. It was Ryan's favourite thing about Tom; the fact that he didn't feel the need to continuously talk or to make crude comments every five seconds or to think of nothing but sex. These were the things that, for the most part, really really irritated him about his class mates.

Ryan had never really seen the attraction in acting like a drunken football lout, and competing to see who could most resemble the missing link between man and ape, whilst surrounding oneself with similarly apeish friends, and girls with fat legs, short skirts, and far too much make-up. It just, as they put it, wasn't his scene.

Had Ryan not had Tom, and not been reasonably well built and co-captain of the wrestling team, he might have had something of a tough time at school. As it was he had made it through pretty much unscathed. He didn't have any other close friends, but never found himself short of someone to talk to, and for the most part the most loutish of the apes left him in peace.

Despite this, he had always **hated **school, hated the restrictions and the social hierarchy, and he had been aching to leave and go travelling. However, when he was fourteen, his father, a royal marine, had died on a reconnaissance mission gone wrong and ever since then he had been filled with a burning ambition to join the army when he left school.

His mother had pointed out that there were **far **more restrictions imposed in the army than there had ever been at school, but that didn't matter to Ryan. A psychologist he'd been forced to see at the time had said that it was his way of 'trying to be close to his father'. It was when she started trying to psychoanalyse his relationship with his Dad that Ryan had walked out of the grief counselling sessions and refused to ever go back.

He had always assumed that he could leave school after his GCSE's and join the army straight from there, and had been horrified to discover that in order to join the Special Forces, it was necessary for him to have **A-levels**.

He had researched and researched, looking desperately for a way to get around that obstacle, but having found none, had reluctantly picked the four least odious of his timetabled subjects and enrolled for Sixth Form. Tom didn't have a clue what he wanted to do with his life, his passions were PE, History, English Literature and Physics, which weren't exactly happy bed fellows, and Ryan had gotten the distinct impression that Tom had joined Sixth Form more to keep him company than because of any burning Higher Education ambitions of his own.

And that was how the two of them had ended up crammed into a hot, stuffy hall, in hot stuffy uniforms, surrounded by people they both disliked. If Ryan had been a bitter sort of person, he might have laid the entire blame at the feet of his dead father and sulked.

As it was, he instead shifted once more to get as comfortable as possible and prepared to tune out the rest of Mrs Queller's 'welcome back' speech.


	2. The Benefits of Punctuality

**Thanks to the two lovely people who reviewed the first chapter!! And onto part 2!**

Chapter 2

Half an hour later, Ryan unfolded his extremely cramped legs from under the seat in front and attempted to stamp some feeling back into his extremities. It worked, to a degree – the numbness was replaced by shooting pains. He half shuffled, half hopped out of the assembly hall, hearing Tom snickering behind him and vowing to wipe the smile off of his best mate's face once he could feel his feet again.

Out in the crowded reception area, Ryan dug around in his bag for his timetable. Examining the mess of rooms, teachers and period numbers, he attempted to work out where he was meant to be. Monday… period 1…double Chemistry. He turned to Tom, who was performing a similar routine next to him.

'What've you got?'

Tom grinned at him; a tiny spark of triumph lighting his face.

'Double free!'

Tom dodged the thump Ryan aimed at his upper arm, and walked off in the direction of the library, pausing only to throw a smug grin over his shoulder at Ryan.

'Wanker,' Ryan muttered, shouldering his bag and heading for the chemistry labs.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him, they had, over the summer, done up the entire science wing of the school. It used to be comprised of two blocks, W Block, and S block. But now they had built a new art block and decided to name **that **the S Block and had thence forth renumbered all the old S Block rooms with W numbers in an order that made no scientific sense at all.

The upshot of this was that Ryan wandered the corridors of the old W Block for a good fifteen minutes, looking for W19, which seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. He was only thankful that he ran into an elderly lab technician who informed him W19 had upped the stakes and relocated to the S Block, otherwise he'd probably have missed the double period entirely.

As it was, he had to walk in late to the class, something which was never all that pleasant and try to explain himself to the teacher without sounding like a simpleton. He didn't think he'd been all that convincing because when the teacher spent the next ten minutes trying to scare and impress them with talk of Chemistry! The Hardest A-Level, Ryan could have sworn she was looking straight at him.

The other downside to being incredibly late was that there was generally a distinct shortage of seats; all the halfway decent ones having been snapped up in the first five seconds. To Ryan's utter disgust, he'd been left with a seat splat bang at the front, splat bang in the middle. To his even greater disgust, his assigned lab partner was Douglas Forrencer; more commonly referred to as 'D-Forz', generally accompanied with a leer, a large helping of loutish attitude and an expression that suggested one's brains had been sucked out by a vacuum cleaner.

As Ryan sat down he said,

'S'up man?'

Which Ryan ignored.

Two hours later, Ryan slouched out of Chemistry feeling as though his brain has been put through a food mixer. The lesson had passed in a blur of talk about subjects and concepts which Ryan suspected he'd only ever be able to just grasp, and would in all likelihood never fully understand.

His timetable showed him he had Geography next, and so he turned left, deciding to walk around the outside of the buildings to try and clear his head. As he passed through the swing doors he heard footsteps behind him, and glancing over his shoulder registered, to a feeling of impending doom, his new lab partner.

'Gor that were a mind screw weren't it?'

And apparently they were actually going to talk.

Ryan nodded at Douglas, and faked a smile. The other boy did not look particularly deterred by his lack of response. At any rate, he scratched his head, burped and said,

'Feels like I just had my brains fucked out, and not in wot I'd call a good way!'

He appeared to be waiting for some kind of response. Ryan had none to give.

Douglas tried again.

'Like not in a good way yeah? If you get my drift!'

He cackled.

Ryan did get his drift. He just didn't find the drift particularly amusing.

He tried though, and managed a weak smile. Douglas appeared satisfied, because they walked in silence for a couple of metres.

Sadly, as they were nearing the reception building, a Sixth Form girl walked past wearing what could, if one was being generous, be called a large belt. If you weren't into generosity, 'handkerchief' was probably more appropriate.

'Cor!' said Douglas again, 'I'd like to get a loada that mate! If you know what I mean!'

This sentence was accompanied by a lewd thrusting of his hips and a wolf whistle at the girl, who looked startled in a pleased kind of way.

Ryan lengthened his stride. The turn to the Geography block was in sight.

'More girls should wear stuff like that, don't you think Ryan mate?'

Shut up, Ryan wanted to yell, just shut up! Instead he settled for,

'Don't call me 'mate', Douglas' and veered off left into the blissful peace of Geography.

All things considered, Ryan rather liked the Geography teacher. His named was Mr Maldeev; he was Indian, balding and irrepressibly cheerful. Geography had been one of only two subjects Ryan had managed a top grade in at GCSE, and so when he entered the classroom, the teacher bounded over to him in two long strides, and clapped him hard on the back, grinning from ear to ear.

'Lovely to have you back in my classroom, Mr Ryan!'

For the first time since he'd left Tom, Ryan managed a genuine smile.

'Thank you, sir.'

The teacher continued to grin and began to recite the syllabus, adding extra notes according to what he felt might be of personal interest to Ryan. The classroom behind him began to gradually fill up, and despite the teacher's exuberant kindness, Ryan couldn't help but wish he would just save this for later so that Ryan could find a seat next to someone with a brain.

But he didn't have the heart to interrupt the teacher, and as a result, Mr Maldeev didn't release him until there was only one spare desk, at which point he appeared to notice the level of noise in the room, which was threatening to become an all-encompassing wave, and realised he actually had a class.

He released Ryan with another grin, and another thump on the back, which left Ryan feeling like he'd been hit by a bus – an amiable and well-meaning bus – but a large moving vehicle never the less.

The spare desk was at the front, but it was none the less **spare**, and Ryan made a direct beeline for it. Settling himself down, he allowed himself to relax. The register was taken; Mr Maldeev began the traditional 'Now-You-Are-In-Sixth-Form' speech, and Ryan began to allow himself to drift a little.

However, after five minutes or so, when Mr Maldeev had only reached point number three on his list of Why Geography? (It appeared to have escaped his notice that they had already chosen the subject), the peace was interrupted by the class room door banging open.

All eyes swivelled sideways and fixed upon the newcomer. It was not dissimilar to what had happened to him only a period before, and despite feeling a pang of sympathy Ryan could not deny that he was as much a victim of curiosity as the rest of his classmates.

Standing in the door was a boy their age. He was, physically speaking, the complete opposite of Ryan. Where Ryan was average height and muscular, this boy was tall and lanky, where Ryan had short blond hair, this boy had short dark hair, where Ryan had average grey eyes; this boy had eyes of brilliant blue, framed by absurdly girly lashes.

He also appeared to have more guts than Ryan because instead of slinking into the classroom, he stood uncertainly in the doorway, rucksack slung over one shoulder, one hand reached back to tousle his hair and just let the class look it's fill.

There was a couple of seconds silence, before Mr Maldeev bounded over and greeted the boy with a clap on the shoulder and a friendly handshake.

'YES! YOU! You must be…Stephen Hart!'

Clearly, however confident this boy was, such an exuberant welcome was unexpected because Stephen staggered back a step, looking a bit stunned.

'Uh…Sorry I'm late, sir, I got a bit lost.'

Mr Maldeev almost overflowed with concern and warmth at this statement.

'Didn't anyone show you the way? How disgraceful! You obviously haven't had much of a welcome to Oakborne! All I can say is WELCOME TO GEOGRAPHY!'

Stephen smiled nervously.

'Thank you sir.'

It was so similar to what Ryan had said earlier that he couldn't help but stifle a grin.

'Not at all, not at all! A pleasure to have you with us! Here's your textbook, I'll mark you as present on the register! Now…to find you a seat…'

Mr Maldeev's eyes roamed the room and landed on Ryan.

'YES! There we are, a seat right at the front! Just there, next to Ryan! Stephen this is Ryan, one of my star students, Ryan, Stephen Hart, joining us from a school in London!'

There was a ripple of murmurs at this revelation. Down in Devon anyone from up in the 'big city' was held up as an icon of fascination.

Stephen took the textbook, nodded his thanks, and then, with a grace that Ryan considered highly unfair given his height, slid into the seat next to Ryan. Considering Stephen was new, Ryan tried not to be too displeased about this. He even went as far as to mutter a greeting.

Stephen smiled at him, and then inclined his head towards the teacher.

'Is he always like that?'

Ryan grinned.

''Fraid so.'

Stephen grimaced slightly.

'Is he a good teacher?'

Ryan nodded.

'One of the best I had. Don't let the cartoon character exterior fool you, he knows his stuff.'

Stephen grinned.

'I feel like I've been hit by a friendly steam train.'

Again his pattern of thought so mirrored Ryan's that Ryan gaped. Stephen raised an eyebrow.

'What?'

Ryan shook his head, turning back to the lesson.

'Nothing.'

He had a feeling he wasn't going to mind having Stephen Hart as a Geography partner.


	3. The Benefits of Geography Teachers

**Thank you to Xanthiae for the reviews!**

To Ryan's utter astonishment, the Geography lesson flew past. It had always been easy to get caught up in Mr Maldeev's enthusiasm for his subject, but this year there had been a clear transition in the level of the class. No longer were they required to sit in silence and listen as the teacher lectured – instead the hour had flown past in a blur of questions and debate.

The topic for the first term was conservation, something every school child is compelled to study roughly thirty-six times in their school career. It was a topic that, although it registered somewhere as vaguely important, Ryan found fell just a tiny bit on the side of dull.

However, as the hour had past it had soon become clear that conservation and the environment were two things that Stephen Hart was very passionate about. Ryan had never met anyone his age before that actually believed recycling made a difference, as opposed to thinking it was just another piece of meaningless crap spouted by the government. But the more Stephen talked, the more it became clear that he **honestly **believed everyone could make a difference in their own way.

Despite his prior lack of enthusiasm, Ryan had found himself becoming more interested as Stephen talked, and had at one point even caught himself reading over Stephen's shoulder as the boy jotted down ideas and notes. He'd hurriedly returned his concentration to his own work, because having Stephen turn and find Ryan breathing down his neck would very probably be interpreted in entirely the wrong way.

And after the lesson, as Ryan idled out to the back car park to meet Tom for lunch, he couldn't help but feel, despite having known him only an hour, that Stephen Hart might be just a little bit different.

When Ryan reached the car park, he wove his way through the cars, headed for the small cluster of trees at the back. As he got closer he spotted his best friend already waiting. Tom was sprawled out on the grass, flat on his back and spread-eagled like a starfish. His tie was wrapped, not around his neck, but around his head, bandana style, and his shirt was both untucked and unbuttoned. A group of Year Eleven girls sitting on a nearby tree stump were giggling and shooting him 'covert' looks, and Ryan briefly entertained the amusing thought that if the dinner ladies caught Tom like that, he'd probably be given detention for indecent exposure.

As it was, Ryan settled for looming briefly over his friend, making sure to block out the sun completely. Tom groaned weakly and attempted to swat him out of the way with a hand. Ryan grinned, and collapsed onto the grass with a whumph. He jabbed Tom in the ribs.

'Hey, did you get me any food?'

Tom waved a hand in the direction of his bag. Ryan reached over and pulled out a cheese and pickle sandwich and a fruit salad.

'Cheers mate. How much do I owe you?'

Tom waved his hand again, as though Ryan's attempt to reimburse him was nothing more than an irritating fly. Have it your way, Ryan thought.

There was a few seconds silence during which Ryan swallowed half a sandwich. Tom didn't even move.

'You not eating?'

Tom groaned again.

'I don't know if I have the **strength **to eat.'

Ryan rolled his eyes.

'My God it talks.'

Tom opened one eye and fixed him with a baleful glare.

'I should remind you at this point, that if it wasn't for my company, **you **would be eating lunch **alone**.**'**

Ryan shook his head.

'Nah, I know you'd never let me suffer through such an ordeal.'

Tom swatted him again. Not so weakly this time.

'Okay, so I wouldn't let you eat lunch **alone**. I'd feel far too guilty if I did that. But I'm sure if I asked **very **nicely those lovely girls over there would be **more **than happy to keep you company.'

Ryan looked over at the girls, which prompted them to fall about giggling and unleash a fresh wave of whispers.

'You wouldn't?!' he gasped in, only partly, mock horror.

Tom nodded sagely.

'I would.'

There was a pause while Tom watched the girls contemplatively. He appeared not to notice the many fluttering lashes.

'You know…I don't think they'd actually eat lunch **with **you. I think they'd be more agreeable if I asked them to eat lunch **off **you.'

Ryan winced.

'Shut **up**, Thomas. Why don't you just ask them to eat me **for **lunch and be done with it?'

'Actually, that's not a bad idea….'

There was a pause….he wouldn't….

'HEY GIRLS!'

'TOM!'

Tom had barely got the words out of his mouth before Ryan leapt at him, knocking him to the ground in a flurry of limbs and flapping bandana ties. There was a brief scuffle, and Ryan got in a couple of punches thanks to his superior strength, before Tom decided to play dirty, and seized Ryan's tie and twisted. Ryan choked, and Tom took the opportunity to roll him onto his front and sit astride his back.

'Say Uncle!'

'Mpppphhh!'

Ryan couldn't have said Uncle even if he wanted to, his face mashed into the floor as it was. The tie round his neck twisted slightly tighter.

'Come on, Ryan! It won't make you less of a man! Say Uncle!'

Ryan struggled furiously.

'Tom?'

The weight on Ryan's back disappeared so quickly that when he rolled onto his back, coughing, with stars exploding inside his head, his vision blacked over briefly, and it took a few minutes before he'd stopped choking and was able to sit up and see who his saviour was. He prayed it wasn't one of the giggling fan club.

The sight that met his eyes wasn't one he'd expected, to say the least. Tom was standing up straight, brushing grass hurriedly from his shirt, his tie-bandana hanging from one hand, and he was obviously trying to pretend he hadn't just been wrestling his best mate to the floor like a five year old.

He was talking to a girl that Ryan vaguely recognised. He thought her name was Alison….Alicia…Alice? Yes, Alice that was it. She was one of the girls in the year group that Ryan hadn't really had anything to do with. She was quiet, shy, not particularly pretty, not particularly clever, not particularly popular…not particularly **anything **really. In terms of social standing she was a nobody. Ryan hadn't even known that Tom knew her.

And apparently he more than knew her. Apparently, he was trying to **impress **her, because Ryan wasn't mistaken, Tom really was trying his absolute hardest to brush off the fact she'd walked over and found them fighting like children. Proof of this was that he was blushing. Not completely fire engine red blushing, but there was definitely a stain of colour highlighting Tom's cheeks. Christ.

Belatedly, Ryan realised both Tom and Alice had turned their eyes to him, and he was standing there staring fixedly at Tom's cheeks. He shook himself and fought off a blush of his own.

He smiled at Alice and held out a hand.

'Ryan,' he offered.

She smiled back and shook his hand.

'I'm Alice. Tom's told me all about you.'

The line was so cliché that Ryan had to strangle a laugh.

'Really,' he said, 'because he hasn't told me anything about you.'

Normally if one of them was flirting with a girl, this kind of attempted sabotage was par for the course, but this time Tom **glared **at Ryan from behind Alice's back. And it wasn't a jokey glare. It was a 'If you ruin this for me Ryan Thomas, I will tell your mother what **really **happened on Halloween last year' glare. It was an expression designed to strike fear in the heart of Satan himself. And Ryan would never claim to be that tough. For one thing he lacked a pitchfork.

He hurriedly re-arranged his features into an expression resembling a smile that said 'just joshing'. Alice, apparently taking this as a sign Tom had been talking about her, positively **beamed **and Ryan recoiled slightly. Tom, to his disgust, merely grinned goofily back at her.

Alice, seeming to realise she was just smiling dreamily at Tom, shook herself and said,

'Well, it was great to meet you Ryan, but I just stopped by to make sure Tom hadn't forgotten this weekend.' At this point she sent a mock-stern glare in Tom's direction. Tom flushed. Alice simpered. Ryan felt sickened.

'This weekend?' he questioned, trying not to sound like a jealous boyfriend. Alice beamed again. That really was a thousand watt smile.

'Yes!' Alice exclaimed. 'Tom's taking me to the Owl Sanctuary!'

**The Owl Sanctuary?! **Ryan sent Tom a look that said 'Are you fucking kidding me?' Tom did a relatively good job of pretending not to notice, but Ryan did see his left eyebrow twitch.

'Yeah. I've uh…always been meaning to go there.'

Always been meaning to go there? Since **WHEN?**

'And owls have always been my favourite animal, and one day Tom and I got talking and it was such a coincidence that we decided it would be a great idea for us to go together!'

It was at this moment that Ryan started to have a little more faith in the old rumour that people chose a favourite animal in accordance with their personality. Alice certainly **twittered **like a bird. He could picture her flapping her wings and dancing from foot to foot on a perch.

Ryan attempted a grimacing smile in response.

'Well, errr…have a great day.'

Alice danced on the spot a little bit. Definitely could picture her on a perch. Definitely.

'We WILL!'

It appeared for a moment that Alice was going to say something else, but she checked her watch, and winced suddenly.

'Shoot! I have to go. Must brave the canteen and find something for lunch before all that's left is lettuce! I'll see you guys later!'

Tom must have correctly interpreted the look Ryan was giving him, because he made a grab for his bag, yanked his sweater over his head, was saying, 'Wait I'll come with you' before Alice had even made any real move to leave. She blushed and fluttered her eyelashes up at him, and Ryan wondered whether she might actually swoon, although he hadn't realised that ever actually happened outside of bad love films.

As the pair turned to leave, Alice gave him a little wave, and Tom shot him a glance over his shoulder. Ryan held eye contact and in that one glance they had an entire conversation. Ryan's eyes were saying,

'Who **is **this girl?'

'**Why** have I not heard about her?

'The **Owl **Sanctuary? **Seriously**?!'

Tom's replies, as far as Ryan could work out were,

'Just someone I met' (obviously a total **lie**)

'I just forgot to mention her…' (again, a **lie**)

'Well, it'll make her happy' (which really was very worrying indeed).

As Tom turned his head away and gallantly took Alice's school bag from her, Ryan made a resolution to have this conversation with Tom in person as soon as humanly possible.

Sitting back down, Ryan now found himself, despite Tom's earlier promise, eating lunch alone. Scanning the immediate area, he was hit by the realisation that the Year Eleven fan club had gone suspiciously quiet. How odd. He would have thought they would have highly enjoyed the scene that had just played out.

Looking the other way, Ryan soon realised the reason for the attention shift. Leaning against a tree, book open on his knees, trying valiantly to ignore the blatant eye-fucking and whispering, was Stephen Hart.

It was almost creepy, the way Stephen seemed to sense Ryan's eyes on him. Because as soon as Ryan registered Stephen's presence, alarmingly blue eyes snapped straight up to meet his.

And whereas Tom's eyes had taken a little interpretation, no such skill was needed in this case.

Because as one particularly daring Year Eleven edged closer, looking worryingly like she might introduce herself, the look in Stephen's eyes was laughably easy to read.

'Save me.'


	4. The Benefits of Basketball

Chapter 4

As it turned out, distracting the Year Eleven girls was much easier than Ryan had previously anticipated. All it had taken was a split-second of vengeful plotting and an uneaten fruit salad. He'd approached the girl nearest Stephen, and said,

'Uh, excuse me?'

She had been so shocked that he was actually addressing her, she'd stumbled and almost fallen over.

'I was wondering if I could ask a favour?'

Ryan added his most ingratiating smile, which might have been a mistake as the girl nodded, composure regained and simultaneously flicked back her long dark hair and posed one leg forward, allowing the movement to hike up her already short skirt.

'Sure thing.'

Ryan could hear the unspoken 'sugar' on the end of that, and prayed they would never become well enough acquainted that she would feel comfortable calling him that.

'Well, my friend left in something of a hurry, and he left this behind,' Ryan waved the fruit salad in the girl's general direction, 'and I would return it myself, but I have to get to a meeting. I was wondering if you would go and find him in the canteen and return it to him? He gets…grumpy…if he doesn't get his five a day.'

Ryan added a slightly dirty grin to the end of this sentence, deliberately allowing the simple statement to be dragged down to the gutter. The girl blushed and smiled flirtatiously.

'Oh no problem, Ryan. We were headed that way anyway.'

Since when had she known his **name**? Still, she was doing him a favour, and one that was bound to make Tom extremely uncomfortable at that. Ryan gave her his most cocky smile in return and watched in satisfaction as she and her giggling posse turned and scurried in the direction of the canteen.

When he glanced back at Stephen, the boy was once again immersed in his book. Ryan couldn't tell if he was faking it or not, but was slightly put out that he wasn't even going to get a word of thanks for his valiant rescue. He cleared his throat quite deliberately.

Stephen looked up. The look he gave Ryan was simultaneously guilty, embarrassed and grateful. He reached down to his side and rummaged in his back for a second, before throwing something at Ryan. Ryan reached out a hand and caught the object one handed, before identifying it as a container of fruit salad.

They exchanged a grin, before Stephen gave him a little salute and returned his attention to his book. Ryan saluted him back, still holding the fruit salad, before grabbing his bag and heading off to his next lesson.

Ryan's fourth lesson of the day was double PE. It was the only subject he was taking with Tom, and as luck would have it they had both ended up in the same class. When Ryan swung into the changing rooms, five minutes early, he was very surprised to find his best mate all present and correct, but slightly less surprised when a pair of trainers came flying at his head only seconds after Tom registered his presence.

He ducked a split-second before the shoes made contact, and they sailed over his head and out into the corridor, where they clumped a startled looking Year Seven around the head.

Ryan leaned out, extended an arm and retrieved the shoes, muttering a swift apology to the younger boy, who blushed, muttered something so quietly he might as well have been speaking Arabic for all the sense it made and scurried away.

Slamming the changing room door shut, Ryan deposited the trainers on a bench next to him, and grinned unabashed at Tom.

'What was **that **for?'

Tom glowered furiously.

'You know **BLOODY WELL **what that was for! You sent that…that…girl to deliver a fruit salad! I don't even **like **fruit salad!'

Ryan shrugged.

'So next time I'll send her with sandwiches.'

Tom made an alarming growling noise.

'You know, she stayed and **sat with us **for the rest of lunch?'

Ryan sputtered.

'Seriously? Wow, she's got guts, I'll give her that.'

Tom nodded, suddenly looking considerably less irritated.

'Yes, oh yes. She's got guts alright.'

Ryan eyed this change in attitude suspiciously.

'Yeah?'

Tom nodded again.

'Yeah. She fancies the pants off you mate. Kept on asking questions about you. Questions that weren't all that subtle either.'

Ryan narrowed his eyes.

'Questions like **what**?'

'Like what your phone number was.'

Shit.

'Thomas Andrew Richard Anthony Jackson. Tell me, for the love of **God, **tell me you didn't.'

Tom grinned at him.

'Sorry, Ry. You know what a romantic I am. Just can't stand the sight of unrequited love. I just **had **to do something to help her out.'

A second later, Tom's trainers were flying back across the room, aimed directly at their owner's nose. Sadly Tom's reactions were just as good as Ryan's and he ducked in time. Tom straightened up, and in a move that possessed no finesse whatsoever, he hurled his entire PE kit at Ryan's head.

Ryan shrieked, a sound that was in no way effeminate, and dodged sideways. Unfortunately at this precise moment the door swung open and Stephen Hart was welcomed to his first PE lesson with a faceful of Tom's PE kit. Thankfully, it was at least clean.

Stephen took it remarkably well, considering, Ryan thought. He did stand and blink for a few seconds, looking slightly disorientated, but once he'd recovered, he stepped neatly around the pile of clothing on the floor, gave Ryan a look that seemed to say 'you again' and said,

'For the first time, I fully appreciate the advantages of knocking before entering.'

Tom laughed, completely undeterred as per usual. He bounded up to Stephen and clapped him on the back, saying,

'I'm Tom, Tom Jackson. I think this is the first time we've met.'

Stephen smiled.

'And what a meeting it was. I'm Stephen Hart. I'm new.'

Tom grinned.

'Welcome to hell, mate, welcome to hell.' He waved a hand in Ryan's general direction. 'This is Ryan, my best mate, for my sins.'

Stephen nodded and grinned at Ryan.

'Yes, we've met.'

'**Have you?' **Tom sounded vaguely indignant. 'How come I never heard about this?'

Ryan shrugged.

'Maybe for the same reason you managed to find a girlfriend and I never heard a word about it?'

Tom scowled.

'Alice **isn't **my girlfriend. She's just a friend. And I met her on that Physics course I did over the summer. The one that you forbade me from mentioning in your presence, lest you die of boredom, recall?'

Ryan rolled his eyes.

'I never meant you couldn't talk about the **people**, you moron!'

Stephen cleared his throat.

Tom, remembering someone else was in the room, was instantly smiles again.

'Sorry mate. We bicker like an old married couple.'

'Yeah, I see that.'

'Anyway, what brings you to this class?'

Stephen's look implied he thought Tom was a bit simple.

'I'm doing A-Level PE…'

Tom's return look implied the same.

'Yes, mate, I know. What I meant is, **why**?'

'Oh. Uh well…'

Thinking Stephen looked a bit hesistant, Ryan jumped in.

'I, for example, am doing PE down to lack of other options.'

Tom grinned.

'And I am doing it because I am a well-known football fanatic.'

Stephen and Ryan shuddered in stereo, and then grinned at each other. Tom gave a dramatic sigh.

'Don't be telling me I'm surrounded by rugby fans.'

Ryan shrugged.

'It's the man's sport, Tom, accept this. Football is just an alternative for those with pitifully low pain thresholds.'

'In other words, if you aren't into SM, stay away.'

'I don't think any rugby players are into SM, Tom. With those shorts, you'd know.'

Tom looked to Stephen for back up. Stephen shrugged and laughed.

'I'm not really big on rugby either. I like field hockey.'

Tom spluttered.

'**Field hockey? **Isn't that a game for women?'

Stephen shrugged.

'It's an Olympic men's sport.'

'But I bet no-one watches it. Where **exactly **is the attraction in a watching a bunch of men bash a little ball about with sticks?'

Tom was displaying the level of tact of a rampaging bull as usual, and Ryan thought he should probably rescue Stephen before he was gored on the bull's proverbial horns. He was saved though, by the changing room door swinging open and the rest of the class trooping through it, Douglas 'D-Forz' Forrencer in the lead.

The former entered the room just in time to hear the tail end of their conversation, and he took the chance to clap Tom on the back and say,

'And that particular opinion is equated with your love of cricket **how **exactly, Thomas?'

Don't get him wrong, Ryan still thought Forrencer was a Neanderthal, but actually, that had been rather good.

Once the class was changed and assembled outside on the netball courts, the teacher announced the sport they would be focusing on this term. Basketball. A groan went up, Ryan and Tom included.

The only people that didn't seem hugely perturbed were Douglas Forrencer and his five cronies. Which was probably because they'd only taken the class in the hope of there being numerous girls in short netball skirts. In fact, there was only one girl in the class, Ellie Whittaker, and she, courtesy of having three enormous hulking brothers in the Upper Sixth, was generally just counted as one of the guys.

The lesson passed in hugely boring exercises, as the teacher ran through all the basic rules of basketball, from where to stand to how to pass to how to shoot a basket. Ryan found himself half listening, half watching Stephen. There was no doubt about it, the boy was good-looking. Ryan rarely noticed attractiveness on anybody, because he wasn't really all that into the shallow relationship crap everyone else did, but there was something aesthetically pleasing about how Stephen was put together.

He was tall and long-limbed, and had the look of someone who hadn't quite grown into their strength yet, but when he moved he possessed an odd grace, which Ryan couldn't help but notice as he moved around the court. His eyes were an irritatingly startling shade of blue and he had lashes that the Year Eleven girls would probably kill for. As if that wasn't enough, he had a well-defined jaw and high cheekbones coupled with fashionably messy dark hair, which was made even more attractive by the fact it almost definitely wasn't deliberate.

If Ryan had been a deep, meaningful sort of person – the sort prone to long periods of agonising – he might perhaps have pondered the reason why he, a straight normal teenaged guy, was actually noticing all this about **another boy**, but as it was he pushed it to the back of his mind and refocused his attention on the game.

Finally, with forty-five minutes to go, the teacher blew the whistle, and the gaggle of boys and girl trooped over. A plan for some games of four-a-side were outlined and being Sixth Formers, they were given the honour of choosing their own teams.

Ryan gravitated towards Tom automatically, and then without thinking, waved Stephen over. This meant they were missing one member, and Ryan wanted to groan in horror as Douglas was waved over to them by the teacher.

'Alright lads?'

Three strained smiles were offered in response to Douglas' greeting.

Ten minutes later, Ryan grinned at Douglas again, and this time it was considerably less strained. Ryan had previously thought that Douglas was in this class to waste time, and would probably spend his entire time sabotaging the games for everyone else and generally being a bit of a berk.

But it turned out he had judged too soon, because Douglas was actually remarkably good at basketball. For a boy that was normally so big and lumbering, he dodged around people exceedingly well, and had so far scored four out of the seven baskets.

They had won their first game, and now, it seemed, were well on their way to winning the second. Ryan was playing defence, guarding their end of the court, and when the whistle went signalling the end of the second game, the four of them laughed, flushed with victory and exercise and even submitted to the inner dork and exchanged a round of high fives.

The teacher, Mr Roberts, spoke a few words of congratulations and sent them in early to change, excusing them from the tedium of re-organising and taking in the equipment.

The four of them walked to the changing rooms in silence, still flushed with their victory, and oddly Ryan felt completely comfortable with the silence, as though they really were a team. He was used to getting that feeling with Tom, but it was unusual to have it with a boy he'd just met, and he'd **never **have expected to feel a sense of teamwork with Douglas.

It was nice, though, and Ryan found himself smiling as he changed, and calling out a goodbye that was almost friendly when Douglas departed for home. Stephen was changed a few moments later, and left the room, raising a hand in an almost-salute. Ryan returned the gesture, this time without the fruit salad, and Stephen gave him a little grin of acknowledgement, which made for some reason made Ryan's cheeks heat up.

Once Stephen had gone, Tom let out a loud whistle.

'Well, Ryan, my lad, I'm very much afraid you may have just lost your title of 'Most Sought After Boy In School.'

Ryan rolled his eyes.

'Don't be ridiculous,' he snapped, unsure whether he was denying the fact that he might have lost that title, or the fact that he'd ever had it in the first place.

Tom grinned.

'I'm not being ridiculous,' he said, smirking, 'did you see our Stephen out there? Ellie couldn't keep her eyes off him, and I fancy I saw a couple of the **guys** looking as well.'

Ryan shrugged, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Was Tom implying he had seen **Ryan **looking?

'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Tom. Stephen isn't really anything special.'

And of course, fate determined that as Ryan said those words, and said them particularly loudly, as he often did when flustered, Stephen would open the door and poke his head in, asking if he'd left his blazer behind.

Ryan closed his eyes briefly, hoping Stephen hadn't heard, and then, upon seeing Tom wince, knew there was no way he **couldn't **have heard, and wondered if he could just sink through the floor.

Stephen for his due, just grabbed his blazer and departed, and Ryan really really hoped the flash of hurt had just been wild imaginings on his part.

There was another silence as the door swung shut behind Stephen, and this time is was wholly **uncomfortable**. That was until Tom broke it by wolf whistling again and saying,

'Bloody hell, Ry. That piece of spectacularly unfortunate timing might just have killed a beautiful friendship before it even got off the ground.'

Ryan's trainers went flying through the air, and this time, Tom's reflexes just weren't **quite **fast enough.

**There's a button underneath this, and pressing it will make a writer very very happy. I was never hugely subtle at hinting :)**


	5. The Benefits of Best Friends

**Huge thanks to Heyarandomgal for the review! Much appreciated :)**

* * *

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Ryan wasn't feeling any less guilty. It was odd that he should feel so bad really, considering he barely knew Stephen, but justifiable because Stephen was new and didn't know anyone, and what Ryan had seen of him, he'd liked.

Anyway, whatever the reason, Ryan was feeling guilty, and was torn two ways; one part of him wanted to apologise to the other boy and try to explain what had been happening, although he wasn't sure he could do that without saying something slightly creepy (like, 'Sorry about what I said, Stephen. I didn't mean it. I just didn't want Tom to think I was perving over you during basketball.'), and the other part of him just wanted to use every stealth skill he possessed to avoid Stephen altogether for the rest of his school career.

In ordinary circumstances, Ryan would have asked Tom's opinion on how best to garner Stephen's forgiveness. Him and his best friend had had so many stupid arguments over the years that Tom was now something of a master at extracting apologies, and Ryan frequently took advantage of his expertise.

However, Tom had been busy on Saturday, escorting Alice around the Owl Sanctuary and on Sunday, Ryan had had swim team and rugby practice, and Tom had had football, and band, and what with one thing and another, they hadn't been able to meet up.

Ryan had considered trying to talk to Tom during registration that morning, but really, when he saw his best mate, the first thing he wanted to be doing wasn't begging for his help and advice, it was pounding the story of Alice out of him using whatever force was deemed necessary.

At rugby practice on Sunday, Ryan's coach, a bear of a man named Gordon, had taught them a particularly unpleasant tackle – in fact, Ryan wasn't sure it was even all that legal – and he was completely prepared to use it on Tom, should the boy turn out to be anything less that readily forthcoming with the information.

Anyway, as a result of spending his weekend ensconced in both sports and sly planning, Ryan hadn't done the one set of homework he'd been given on the first day back, and, not particularly wanting to start the year with a detention, was attempting to read chapters one, two and three of the Chemistry textbook as he walked to school on Monday morning.

Because of this he had already walked into a lamppost (and then typically another one, as he turned his head to see what he had walked into the first time), a post box and a small child, and was starting to think that trying to study the Avogadro constant and its role in molecular formulas while walking might be something of a health hazard.

But Ryan had never been one to give up, and so persevered, his head resolutely buried in the textbook. And it was because of this, that, as he rounded the corner into Ealdstone Lane, the next object he walked into was Stephen Hart.

Had Ryan been watching where he was going, he could easily have avoided the collision; the corner was not particularly sharp, nor was there a large leafy hedge to block one's view. But sadly, his attention had been very much glued to his textbook, and as a result he walked smack into Stephen, causing the other boy to drop a large pile of textbooks and Ryan himself to fall over a low, inconveniently-placed, garden wall.

Blinking in disorientation, Ryan waited briefly for the world to right itself, before running earth-streaked fingers through his hair, yanking his tie around from just below his ear, and directing a grimace of greeting at Stephen from the vicinity of Mrs Low-Wall's flowerbed.

Stephen, despite his almost definite displeasure with Ryan, grinned back, almost helplessly, and reached over to offer him a hand.

Ryan used Stephen's arm to haul himself out of the hydrangeas, and then bent down to help the other boy scoop up his books.

They resumed walking in silence for a few minutes; a silence that was supremely awkward and made Ryan want to scream and then eat his own tie purely for something to do. He was about to try to make polite small talk, when Stephen, without so much as acknowledging Ryan with a glance said,

'See, now I know you were lying.'

'Ug?' Ryan was never all that talkative on a Monday morning. Stephen shot him an amused glance that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle, in a way that made Ryan's stomach flip strangely.

'Now I know you were lying when you told your friend I was nothing special.'

Ryan gaped at him, torn between being extremely impressed that Stephen had tackled the issue in such a head-on way, and slightly rankled at the turn this conversation was taking. Ryan blamed that second emotion for the less than polite tone of his response.

'How do you figure that out?'

Stephen shrugged.

'Well, you might say I'm nothing special, but apparently I'm enough to sweep you off your feet and into a bed without even trying at all.'

There was a second's silence, in which Ryan gaped at Stephen in shock; astounded that the other boy had the sheer nerve to say something like that to someone he barely knew. Stephen for his part was wearing a little grin, as though he knew just how much his last statement had thrown Ryan for a loop.

Ryan had absolutely no idea what to say in reply.

'I really don't think it counts if it's a flower bed,' he snapped.

Stephen's smile widened, spreading all the way up to his eyes, and he shrugged.

'Guess I'll have to try harder then next time, won't I?'

Part of Ryan wanted to start spluttering again, because surely, surely, Stephen wasn't implying…well, no. Ryan stopped that thought in its tracks before he could finish it. Of course Stephen wasn't implying that. Christ what was he thinking?

Giving his head a little shake to clear it, Ryan fixed Stephen with his most intimidating glare.

'Don't worry. I'll look where I'm going from now on, and there won't be a next time.'

And then, without waiting for Stephen's reply, Ryan lengthened his stride and marched purposely forward, drawing ahead of the other boy. Stephen made no attempt to catch him up, or to initiate another conversation, and they continued in this fashion all the way down Ealdstone Road, and halfway up York Crescent.

It was only as he was passing Number 59 that Ryan realised he had been thrown so much off kilter by Stephen's strange behaviour that he hadn't actually apologised for what he'd said in the changing rooms. As much as he wanted to march off into the distance and completely ignore the boy behind him, the part of Ryan that had been raised with halfway decent manners gave a guilty twinge.

With a sigh Ryan slowed, and waited for Stephen to catch him up. When the other boy drew level with him, Ryan cleared his throat. Stephen looked at him, one eyebrow raised. He clearly thought Ryan was acting like a bit of a moron. Which he probably was. But Stephen Bloody Hart had a strange effect on him.

'Look, whether I meant it or not…' God, what was he saying? Wasn't the point of this apology to tell Stephen that he hadn't meant it? Ryan cleared his throat again and restarted.

'What I'm trying to say is that, I shouldn't have said what I did in the changing room. I barely know you. And I didn't mean it, I was just trying to…' hastily recalling the exact reason why he'd said what he had, Ryan censored the rest of that sentence, and drew to a clumsy finish, '…anyway, I shouldn't have said it. Sorry.'

Ryan finished his apology staring fixedly at his feet, and it was only after a minute of silence that he dared look up at the other boy. To his intense relief, Stephen was smiling; a wide smile tinged with amusement that made the corners of his mouth quirk up and his eyes warm. Ryan felt that strange flip in his stomach again.

For a few seconds, he and Stephen just stared at each other, before Ryan realised the other boy hadn't actually said anything yet, and broke the eye contact with a quick cough, suddenly uncomfortable.

'So are we okay?'

As he spoke, the two of them had turned off the road and through the school gates, and in under six strides they would be going their separate ways. Just as they reached the turn off to Ryan's form room, Stephen finally deigned to reply. He clapped Ryan on the back, and nodded.

'Yeah,' he said, 'yeah, we're okay.'

He threw Ryan a last smile, and then walked swiftly off in the direction of the music block. His dark hair was ruffled at the back, sticking up in tufts in a way that Ryan found strangely endearing. Realising he was now standing, gawping like an idiot, Ryan ran a hand through his hair, and turned on his heel, heading for his form room in the English block.

He had a strange feeling that he was going to be seeing a lot more of Stephen Hart.

By the time 9 o'clock rolled around, Ryan was wishing he'd never got out of bed. No, more than that. He was wishing he had never even bothered to enrol in Sixth Form. What was the point of having the qualifications to enter the army if he gave himself a heart attack in the process?

When Ryan had entered the form room, the first thing he had done was scan the room in search of Tom. He had felt desperately in need of his best friend's opinion on Stephen, and had felt a whoosh of relief when he had spotted Tom's familiar dark curly head hunched over a text book in the corner of the room.

Weaving his way through the multitude of desks and chairs, Ryan had slammed his school bag onto the table next to Tom's head, making his best mate jump, and collapsed into the nearest chair, swinging his legs onto the desk.

Tom had grinned at him, slamming the book shut, and said,

'Hey man, what gives?' in a fairly credible impersonation of the moronic boys in their year. Ryan swatted him over the head.

He was about to tell Tom everything that had just happened, when he remembered his previous plan to first squeeze information on Alice out of his best friend. Ryan hesitated for a brief second, before deciding that Alice and her twittering could wait.

'So, I just had the strangest conversation with Stephen….'

It had taken Ryan all of three minutes to relay the entire story to Tom, and then he had sat back, waiting for his best friend to reel off a sensible explanation for Stephen's peculiar statements about sweeping Ryan into bed.

Tom however, had done no such thing. Ryan had noticed that as he told the story, Tom's eyebrows had been gradually rising higher and higher, and by the time he had finished, and was looking at Tom expectantly, they had almost vanished into his friend's hairline.

And then, as he had waited for Tom to pour sanity on this situation, his best mate's mouth had curled into a grin that reeked of speculation, incredulousness and delight all at once. Ryan had been instantly suspicious.

'What?'

Tom had reached over and clapped him on the back.

'Well, my poor socially-inept friend,' he'd said, 'I'm afraid it sounds very much like our Stephen was flirting with you.'

For about the fifth time that day, Ryan had been struck completely and utterly dumb with shock. The entire idea, the entire concept was so beyond ridiculous that he had absolutely no reply for Tom other than,

'Will you stop referring to him as 'our Stephen'?'

Tom had raised an eyebrow, and with a devious little smirk replied,

'Oh sorry, Ryan. I'd forgotten you hated sharing. He'll only be 'your Stephen' from now on.'

At this point Ryan had deemed he only had two options. One would end in him being imprisoned for violently eviscerating one Thomas Jackson, and so he took the second option, and face planted into the desk.

And now, with the bell for first lesson still echoing violently in his ear, Ryan was simply praying he would never have to see Stephen Hart again, because he was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to look him in the eye.

But obviously the Gods were never that kind, because as Ryan rooted around for his timetable, he saw to his horror that his first two lessons consisted of Double Geography.

It was going to be a long morning.


End file.
